would be in Granhus, where floating women and trespassing elk seemed commonplace. But if there was anyone who had proved to be up to the task of dealing with the bizarre, it was Maren. I’d caught wind of how calm she’d remained when the drill struck Dag. “He had a hole in his skull the size of a fist,” one of the men told Clive. “Pouring blood. I could see bone and brain. She put her bare hand on the flap of bone and pushed it back in place, wrapping the bandage around with the other.” I worked up the courage to tell her about Dora, deflecting her initial shock by quickly asking if she would mind feeding her while we were gone. Astonishingly, Maren was quite sympathetic to the idea of a rescue bird concealed in the playroom, or perhaps she was just still in shock at my deviousness. Either way, she agreed to care for her, and off we went.
Oslo was magical. We visited the Viking museum, where I was delighted to find an actual ship from AD 800 sitting right there in the gallery. Gaia was fascinated to learn about the dead Viking queen being buried in the ship with cooking utensils and horses (also dead), and that she was buried not in a coffin but neatly tucked into her favorite bed. After that, we got on a train and headed to Bergen, where we caught the Hurtigruten ferry. It was more of a cruise ship than a ferry, with comfortable plush suites, viewing decks, and amazing food. The girls and I spent all our time staring out of the windows at the sea eagles we’d see drifting over the snowcapped mountains that lay on either side of the ship, waving at other boats as they passed by, or attending lectures about trolls and fjords. A few days later, we crossed the Arctic Circle and arrived at Tromsø, where Tom had rented an apartment.
I saw Tom relax the farther north we went. He had been on the phone to Erik and Clive every day, getting updates about Dag, who was now conscious, and the doctors were over the moon with how the surgery went. I was glad to hear this. For a while it looked as though he might not make it at all. But beyond these phone calls, I noticed Tom didn’t seem so glued to his phone. He ignored calls if they weren’t from Erik or Clive. He spent his evenings reading, or standing at the balcony with a cigarette, staring out at the mountains crowning the city. Occasionally he’d sit down with Gaia and help her improve her drawings. I found he had no notion of preparing Christmas dinner, so I improvised. What was intended to be a sophisticated mushroom and lentil nut roast with caramelized onion turned into an unguent compost with an aftertaste of peanuts. When Coco gagged after a few mouthfuls I replaced it hastily with bowls of cornflakes with almond milk.
“Merry Christmas,” Tom said, pouring himself a beer to accompany said cornflakes.
“I feel like Tiny Tim,” Gaia observed happily.
I was still wary of Tom, particularly about being alone with him. There was an awkward moment when someone on the train thought we were husband and wife. In Bergen, I spotted some police officers and the thought crossed my mind of rushing up to them and trying to tell them about what I’d read in the diary. But who would believe me? I was just the nanny, and a false one at that. Tom was a highly regarded, internationally recognized architect.
And something about his manner caught me off guard. For instance, on Christmas Eve, he took me aside and handed me an envelope. “Go get your family some presents,” he said. I looked from the envelope to him with confusion. He seemed embarrassed. “It was very good of you to stay with the girls over Christmas. I appreciate it enormously. You’re the best nanny we’ve ever had.” His eyes were glistening with tears. A head cold, I thought, until his voice broke. “I really appreciate what you’ve done, and so I’d really like it if you’d accept this and go get some presents for your family. Please, I insist.”
I went out to the shops with the envelope. I had no one to buy for. Not a single person. No one had e-mailed me to see how I was. No one had called. The only people I really wanted to buy for